'Uh-huh. You lose the goad I gave you?'
'Yes, Onthar,' Sturm said. 'Rorin lent me another.'
'Lost goad costs two coppers. I'll deduct it from your pay.' Onthar swung around and rode on to speak with
Rorin.
The more Sturm thought about it, the angrier he got with
Onthar. To charge for the lost goad seemed downright petty.
Then the teachings of the Measure reminded Sturm to see the situation from Onthar's point of view. Maybe they hadn't known Brumbar was shod. Ostimar did advise him to stay away from the ford's edge. Onthar had originally paid for the goad he'd lost. Given the scarcity of hard money in a life like herding, charging two coppers for a lost stick wasn't petty. It was absolutely necessary.
Sturm pulled off his bandanna and wrung it out. His clothes would dry rapidly in the sun, and there was a long day's ride still to go. He straightened in the saddle and thought of himself as being on a war foray. Alert yet relaxed. That's the way his old friend, Soren, had practiced soldiering, as sergeant of the castle guard for Sturm's father.
A braver, more devoted man had never lived.
Onthar circumnavigated the herd, and when he was satis fied that all was in order, he returned to the head and sig naled to resume the drive. The bawling calves and cows slowly came about as Onthar led them north and east toward Vingaard Keep, some sixty miles away.
It was a long, hard day, and the herders spent every min ute of it in the saddle. Sturm had always thought of himself as an accomplished long-distance rider, but compared to
Onthar's men, he was a tenderfoot after all. Except that it wasn't his feet that grew tender.
The herders rotated positions, moving slowly counter clockwise around the herd. The midday meal, such as it was, was eaten when a man reached the front. Then there were no cows to watch, only the lay of the land ahead. Sad dle food was jerky and cheese and raw onions, all washed down with bitter cider.
The sun was still well up when Onthar called a halt.
Sturm estimated that they'd covered twenty-five miles since crossing the river. Frijje, Belingen, and Rorin pushed the herd into a shallow ravine in the middle of the grassland.
Judging by the trampled grass and scoured ground, this pit had been used by previous herds on their way north. Osti mar and Onthar took Sturm on a circuit of the pit and showed him how to set up the fence that would keep the ani mals from wandering in the night.
'Fence?' Sturm said. He hadn't seen anyone carrying anything as bulky as a fence.
Onthar pulled a wooden stake about two feet long with a fork at the top from a canvas satchel and stuck it in the ground. He tied the end of a length of rope to the fork and stretched it out eight or ten feet, where Ostimar set another stake. On and on this went, until the whole herd was sur rounded by a single thickness of rope.
'And this flimsy barrier will keep them in?' asked Sturm.
'Cows and steers aren't real wise,' Ostimar explained.
'They'll think they can't push through the rope, so they won't try. 'Course, if a real panic set in, a stone wall wouldn't stop 'em.'
'What would frighten them that much?'
'Wolves,' noted Ostimar. 'Or men.'
The herders camped on the highest ground overlooking the pit. Rorin and Frijje scythed down sheafs of tall grass for cattle fodder, but the herd would get no water until the next day, when they reached Brantha's Pond.
Onthar built a fire from wind-blown twigs gleaned from the grass. The fire drew the other herders in. The common kettle was brought out and hung from its peg over the flames. Each man stooped over the pot and added something — water, cheese, flour, bits of meat, vegetables, and fruit. When the pot was full, Frijje knelt by the fire and stirred it.
'Not a bad day,' said Rorin.
'Hot,' Ostimar pointed out. 'Should rain.'
'Some of us don't mind taking a swim instead of work ing,' Belingen cracked. Sturm sensed a challenge in his eyes.
'Some of us ought to get wet more often,' he parried. 'It would help to cut the smell.'
Frijje stopped stirring the pot. The herders looked at
Sturm intently. Belingen said coldly, 'Only a city fool would ride a shod horse across a river ford.'
'True enough,' Sturm countered. 'How many times did you do it, Belingen, before you thought to remove your horse's shoes?' He saw the Estwilder close one hand into a fist. Sturm knew that the only way he could keep the respect of these rough, simple men was to match Belingen insult for insult. If he showed any softness, real or imagined, they would let Belingen treat Sturm any way he liked.
The next thing Sturm knew, Onthar was on his feet, shouting. 'Get up! Get up, you idiots! Raiders! Raiders are after the herd!'
A rumble of massed hooves and screams proved that
Onthar was telling the truth. '111 get my sword,' Sturm said, running to find Brumbar.
The herders vaulted onto their short ponies and pulled their goads out of the ground. Sturm climbed heavily onto
Brumbar. Drawing his sword, he spurred after his com rades.
In the twilight, he could see that the attackers outnum bered Onthar and his men — perhaps a dozen. The raiders wore fantastic masks with glaring, painted eyes and horns, tusks, and garish frills made of wildly painted leather. They were armed with sabers and short bows. Several steers were already down, lying on their sides with arrows sticking out.
Onthar charged into the pack of yelling thieves. His goad took one raider in the chest, but the slim shaft snapped. The cattle thief toppled off his horse with thirty inches of goad buried in his chest. Onthar shouted to Rorin, who slapped a new weapon into his leader's hand.
Sturm angled to the other side of the raider band. Brum bar burst through the ranks of the raiders' lighter beasts, overturning two of them. Sturm cut down one bow-armed thief wearing a horrible, leering mask. Another took his place, slashing hard with a crudely forged saber. Sturm turned the thin, curved blade and thrust home through the raider's throat. The thief's body fell forward but was caught in the stirrups; the horse galloped away from the fight, the dead man dragging behind.
The mounted thieves seemed to be getting the worst of it, until Sturm realized that there were foes on foot as well.
Masked figures stole out of t-he grass and fell on the arrow shot animals. As the battle raged around them, they swiftly skinned and butchered the steers. The raiders left hide and carcass, but carried away whole sides of beef. Frijje cut off one pair's escape by spearing one and trampling the other. It was a brutal, nasty fight.
Sturm felt a sharp blow on his back. As he pivoted Brum bar, he felt a short arrow sticking from his back. The raider who had loosed it was only a few yards away. The popeyed face on the leather mask reflected its wearer's obvious sur prise that Sturm hadn't fallen. The raider couldn't know that Sturm still wore his mail shirt under his riding tunic.
Sturm flew at the archer. The raider turned to flee, but
Brumbar's long legs rapidly outgained the thief's short legged pony. Some instinct for mercy made Sturm turn away his sword edge, and he brought the flat of the tem pered blade down on the raider's head. The thief threw up his hands and slid sideways off his pony.
The other raiders were in hot flight. Onthar's men chased them some way, but quickly returned to guard the rest of the herd. Sturm dismounted and dragged the unconscious raid er to Brumbar. He threw the light body across the horse and led them back to Onthar.
'Filthy dirt-eating swine,' Onthar said, spitting. 'They got four. The robbers eat well tonight!'
'Not all of them,' Sturm said. At least four of the raiders were dead. 'I caught one.' The herders clustered around.
Frijje grabbed the raider by his characteristic ponytail and jerked his head back. Still out cold. Frijje tore the painted mask away.
